3. Brando
3
brANDO
T he club is alive, the pulse of the music vibrating in my chest, making the air thrum with every beat. I cut through the crowd, my steps measured but fast, as I head toward the back of the room, passing the bar, where I can hear the sharp clink of glass and laughter echoing against the thick walls. The narrow corridor ahead of me is a sharp contrast to the chaos of the club—quiet, almost claustrophobic. I push open the door to my office, a familiar, dimly lit space that smells of leather, whiskey, and power. And waiting for me, as usual, are two of my most trusted men.
Enzo and Lupe.
Both of them have been in my life longer than I care to remember, and both have their own unique way of making sure I know they’re there for me. Enzo leans back against the wall, his arms folded, the faintest trace of a smirk playing at the corner of his lips. His easy confidence is a constant in my life. He’s got a knack for reading people, and even more so for reading situations. When Enzo speaks, people listen—whether they like it or not.
Lupe, on the other hand, is a walking hurricane. He’s intense, unpredictable, and dangerous in ways I don’t even try to control. He has the gift of making things happen, no matter the cost, and though he’s a bit rough around the edges, I trust him with my life. When Lupe decides something needs to be done, it gets done—quickly. But it’s that reckless side of him that often makes me question if he’s a loose cannon waiting to explode.
I take a breath before sitting behind my desk, one that hasn’t seen much use recently. Between running interference with the Gattis, keeping my eye on the family business, and monitoring my sister-in-law Allegra’s progress—pregnant as she is with my brother Scar’s child—I’ve been spread too thin. The last thing I want right now is to be caught in the middle of another goddamn turf war. But I can’t ignore the rumblings. Not this time.
“About fucking time,” Enzo mutters, his voice gravelly with amusement. He’s always like this—brash, blunt, but with the kind of loyalty I know I can count on when shit hits the fan.
“Well, not everyone has the luxury of sitting on their ass all day, Enzo,” I reply, leaning back in my chair and rubbing a hand over my jaw. I know the work doesn’t stop, but lately it feels like it’s all spinning out of control. The business with my mother—who, despite being out of the picture for almost fifteen years, managed to screw with our lives one last time before we ended it all—still lingers like a bad taste in my mouth. She used the Scarfones and Lucianis against us, and we had to wage an all-out war just to keep what was ours.
I can’t say it’s over. Not yet. We haven’t seen the last of the fallout.
“I trust you guys to take care of things while I’m away,” I say, giving them both a pointed look. “I know my business is in capable hands.”
Enzo meets my eyes with a lazy, almost too casual smile. It’s his way of telling me he’s ready, no questions asked. Lupe, though, leans forward, his gaze flicking around the room like he’s double-checking for any threats. It’s a reflex of his—he’s never been the type to take risks, especially not in situations like this. I respect that, even if it does make him a little twitchy at times.
“It’s good you came, boss,” Lupe says, his voice edged with urgency. I can see the nervous tension radiating off him now, like a live wire. He leans forward, glancing over his shoulder as if checking the door, before continuing. “The Viccis are making noise.”
That catches my attention. The Viccis. They’ve always been under the radar, small fry compared to us, the kind of family that operates in the shadows. But with the Luciani and Scarfone families in turmoil, it could be the Viccis would love nothing more than to take advantage of the situation.
“Break it down for me,” I order, keeping my voice steady.
Lupe’s eyes flick from me to Enzo, who gives him a subtle nod. “Cousins to the Lucianis,” Lupe continues, his tone low and conspiratorial. “One of them is married to the sister of one of the men we took out with the trash. They’ve been screaming bloody murder ever since.”
I lift my eyes, pinning them with a silent question. Both men know understand what I’m asking.
“It’s clean,” Enzo confirms, his voice steady as always. “I’ve been doing daily sweeps of the office. No bugs, no wires.” His smirk is cocky but reassuring. He’s good at what he does. And right now, that means making sure no one is listening in on our conversation.
“Alright, so the Viccis are out for blood,” I say, leaning forward and folding my arms on the desk. “What will it take to get them off our backs?”
Lupe’s eyes narrow, his hands tightening into fists. “Nothing a bullet through the head wouldn’t fix, boss.”
I roll my eyes and shake my head. I should’ve known. “We can’t just go around killing people at random, Lupe. It’ll start a turf war.”
“We did it with the Scarfones,” he reminds me, his voice steady, almost defiant.
“That was different,” I shoot back, my voice hardening. “We were defending what was ours, and we had the backing of Seattle.” I pause, letting the weight of that sink in. “This time, we’re not dealing with small-time players like the Scarfones. The Viccis are cousins to the Lucianis. We don’t want to open a new another pandora’s box we’re not ready for.”
Enzo speaks up, his calm voice cutting through the tension. “I’m sure we still have Seattle’s backing,” he says. “People don’t like to mess with that kind of clout. The Viccis are just a bunch of muscle heads making noise. That’s all.”
His words ring true. The Viccis are a problem, but they’re not an insurmountable one. Still, I can’t afford to let my guard down.
“Regardless, this is not the time to relax,” I say, my voice taking on an edge. “I want eyes on them at all times. Get me Seattle on the phone.”
Lupe’s eyes flash with the same wild intensity I’ve come to expect. “If you need me to go down there and put a bullet in someone’s head, just say the word, boss.”
I hold up a hand, silencing him. “No. We play this smart. We keep it clean, keep it quiet. But make sure we know every move they make.”
Our friends in Seattle are a force to be reckoned with. It’s only been a few short months since they fought alongside us against the Scarfones and the Lucianis, the war in which we also eliminated our mother. Our own flesh and blood. But she stepped on that landmine first. When I end the call after speaking with Dante Accardi and pocket the phone, I’m more than satisfied that the situation with the Viccis will be resolved with the power of a call from Seattle. I give the issue no further thought as I turn my chair to face the window. My own mind conspires against me as my thoughts flicker to Christiano, the twin I lost, the ghost who never leaves my side.
Silence blossoms. I don’t move, my hands frozen on the table's surface, fingers spread wide as if to grasp at the remnants of the past. The room feels larger, emptier, as if it has exhaled the absence of voices and footsteps.
My gaze shifts once again. Beyond the window, the city is ablaze with artificial stars, twinkling distantly against the velvet night. They flicker, each pulse a heartbeat, a reminder of what once was—a time where laughter mingled with the ambient sounds of the bustling streets below, where Christiano's voice was part of the city's symphony.
Nothing has been the same since I lost him. It’s been more than fifteen years, and still, the memory of losing him is as fresh as a newly incised flesh wound.
“Remember when we'd race across the rooftops?” I murmur to no one. “You always said the lights were our crowd, cheering us on.”
Rain lashes against my face. Younger, wetter, colder—I stand alone, the droplets like icy fingers trailing down my spine. My father’s voice, words crackling like static, tearing through the storm's howl.
“... it was an accident… an accident. Christiano…”
The words had struck like lightning, searing into me, leaving a charred hollow where warmth used to be. I doubled over, gasping for air, for sanity. The rain couldn't wash away the truth. It couldn’t undo what had been done. It couldn’t give me back my brother. And it sure as hell couldn’t wash away the pain of losing my other half.
It’s in moments like these that the same hollow echoes within me. The pain just as intense, just as raw as it had been on that rain-soaked night. My twin, my other half, gone—leaving behind a silence that roars louder than any tempest.
My hand tightens into a fist, the ghost of Christiano's laughter fading into the shadows of my mind. I exhale sharply, the breath I hadn't realized I was holding.
I push back the chair, its legs scraping quietly against the polished floor. Standing, I feel the weight of the room's emptiness settle on my shoulders like a familiar coat. My fingers deftly straighten the lapels of my suit jacket, my movements precise and automatic.
The club had, for the most part cleared out, leaving behind the scent of rich leathers and spiced cologne. I head toward the exit, each step a measured beat in the silence of my mind. I can feel the silent storm brewing within me, dark clouds swirling around me. I’d thought I’d reach some measure of closure once our mother was gone, but if anything, her coming back into our lives had only stirred up memories which had long laid dormant. Memories that I could do without.
“Brando,” a voice calls out, halting me mid-step.
Scar's figure emerges from the dark shadows of the fading club, his black hair and intense gaze cutting through me. The scar over his brow, a permanent reminder of battles fought and won, deepens with his furrowed expression, matching my own.
“What are you doing here?” I ask him. His wife Allegra is due to give birth any day now. He hasn’t left her side for a minute out of fear that he’d miss even a second of the birth of his first child, his biggest fear that he wouldn’t be there when his wife needed him most. After everything they’ve been through together, they’re closer than ever, but my brother has taken to hovering over his wife in a way that shows us he’s a changed man. For the better. The fact that he’s left her even for a second means something serious compelled him to leave the house.
“We need to talk.”
“Where’s Allegra?”
“At home waiting for me. So don’t make me run around in circles.”
“You should be at home with her, Scar,” I tell him, before I turn back once again to the exit.
“Allegra sent me,” he adds quickly, and I halt my footsteps, the unspoken query in my eyes meeting Scar's stern gaze. His concern is etched in the lines of his face, his authority worn as easily as the leather on his back.
My brother's face softens slightly as he tilts his head to the side, indicating a secluded spot away from the last of the club’s departing patrons.
“Over here,” Scar murmurs, leading the way.
The clink of glassware and low hum of conversation dwindles into obscurity as we sink into the plush leather of a booth, shrouded by shadows. The dim light above flickers briefly before settling on a steady glow that barely reaches the table's edge.
“Allegra's due any day now.” Scar's voice carries a sombre weight, eyes locked onto mine. “We’re her family; she needs us. And she’s worried about you, brother.”
My chest tightens, the mention of Allegra threading tension through my already taut muscles. Ever since she’s come into our lives, she’s become mother, sister, and friend to me and my brothers. We’d never had a proper female influence in our lives, yet she’s become everything we never knew we needed.
I nod slowly, the weight of Scar's words settling into my bones like lead. The only thing that still tethers me to this world is what remains of a lineage steeped in both honor and bloodshed.
“Allegra has nothing to worry about. I’ll be there for her,” I murmur, the promise etched deep within the timbre of my voice.
Scar studies me, our shared history a wordless dialogue between us. “You can't keep burying yourself in work, Brando.” His roughened hand brushes against the table, an anchor between us trying to keep me afloat. “Nothing’s going to bring him back.”
Scar's reminder reaches me, a soft blow to the walls I’ve built around my heart. Our mother’s recent death dredged up memories that had no business resurfacing, and I feel like I’m drowning in my own grief again.
“Work is...” I trail off, finding no solace in excuses. I lock eyes with my brother, a silent vow passing through the space between us. “I’ll do better.”
“Just be there,” Scar says, his voice barely above a whisper, carrying the force of a command. “Because that's where you belong, Brando.”
My gaze shifts. Gratitude for Scar's concern laces with the sharp sting of frustration. My brother's words echo in my mind, but so does the endless list of demands waiting outside these walls.
“Scar,” my voice is a low rumble, “the empire doesn't run itself.”
“Neither does a family.”